


The Persistence of Loss

by taralkariel



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 23:47:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3956455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taralkariel/pseuds/taralkariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has nothing. He lets Steve take him home, meets Natasha and Sam. Everyone tries to help, but no one understands, and he cannot find the words. His memories return when he dreams and he finally finds a reason to speak.  One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Persistence of Loss

He dreams of blue: blue eyes and a blue uniform and blue water swallowing them up.

 

Steve is waiting for him; he knew he would be.  He was searching for him, but he can avoid being found if he wishes.  Maybe his years of training weren’t so bad after all.  Steve takes him home, like a lost puppy.  Maybe he is one.  He doesn’t know where else to go, what else to do.  HYDRA made him loyal to and dependent on them.  Now he is loyal to and dependent on Steve.  But that’s probably how things were before, so it’s okay.  He doesn’t mind.

It takes a while before he lets Steve take him home.  He tracks Steve the same way he is being tracked, and waits.  Steve upsets him, makes his mind react in strange and unaccountable ways.  He doesn’t like it.  Until he remembers enough to understand it.  Then he lets Steve and his friend, Sam Wilson, find him and take him home.  Like a lost puppy.

He doesn’t remember living in New York with Steve.  He remembers going to war, and later serving with Steve.  But he doesn’t remember Brooklyn.  This makes Steve sad.  He doesn’t know what to do about that.  He isn’t sad.  But he feels hollow, so maybe that is the same thing.

 

He dreams of purple: twilight and corpses and bruises of his own

 

There are other people who live here, with Steve.  Steve doesn’t live in an apartment by himself anymore.  He has been to Steve’s apartment, has shot a man through the walls.  He doesn’t live there anymore.  There is a man, the son of a man he once knew, who built this tower and invited them all to live together.  All of the team.  It is like, and not like, living at camp with the Howling Commandos.

Steve was the only one who was more than just a man, then.  Now there are only two who are just human.  A man who built armor, a man who becomes a beast, a god.  Two spies are the closest to what the Howling Commandos were – just following someone greater.  He isn’t just human anymore, he thinks.  He’s more like Steve now.  But not like Steve.  Never like Steve.  Sam is here, too.  He isn’t like Steve, either, but helps.  He helps a lot.  He understands.  Steve tries, but he doesn’t.

The spies understand, too.   They know what it is to be unmade.  They aren’t like Steve, but they help.  Everyone is gentle, walking on eggshells.  It grates.  He is broken, fragile, but he’s always been adaptable.   Always a survivor.  Steve makes his stands and does not move, but he knows that sometimes you have to move, to back down, to live, to survive to try again later.  Everyone can’t be unmovable objects.

 

He dreams of orange: flames and explosions, caused by his hands

 

The others avoid him.  He doesn’t mind.  He works to remember himself, the past, what he’s done.  Memories are fragmented, and take time to put together.  Some will never return.  Some only in parts.  Steve helps.  Sometimes he asks him to tell him about his memories.  This pleases Steve, who wants him to remember, wants him to be the man he was before the war.  As more memories surface, he decides he wouldn’t have been that man again anyway.  Even if he had returned, not fallen into the cold and the rocks and died.

Natasha doesn’t avoid him.  She looks at him, intently, not quite the way Steve does.  More understanding than willing him to be better, but no one else watches him as closely.  She comes to see him often, almost as often as Sam.  She doesn’t speak much, just sits by and keeps him company.  He prefers that.  Sam and Steve do that sometimes, too.  It’s what he needs.  He was alone for the last decades, valued as a tool but not a man.  His aptitude for strategy and killing was valued, appreciated.  Now he doesn’t know why they smile at him, and comfort him when he is awakened by his own screaming.  He is broken, useless.  He has no value.

 

He dreams of grey: the inside of his cryo-tube, the color of the sky when he fell, his arm

 

Sometimes he speaks in other languages.  He doesn’t know what they are.  They come to him as easily as English, but no one understands him.  Sometimes Natasha does, so he must be speaking Russian.  He doesn’t like to talk, doesn’t know what kinds of words will come out if he lets himself speak.  There aren’t words for what he wants to say, though he tries, searches through all the words he knows.  But they aren’t there.

Natasha likes when he speaks Russian to her, so he does.  He didn’t intentionally, at first, it was just what came out when he spoke.  She smiled, a bit sadly, and answered him in the same language.  Steve was surprised, confused, but didn’t mind.  He likes when he talks, even if he doesn’t understand.  He tells him it’s good not to keep things bottled up.  Sam tells him the same.  He doesn’t disagree, but there isn’t any reason to tell them what he’s thinking.  His thoughts are confused and fragmented most of the time anyway.

Memories are returning rapidly now.  It’s been weeks since his last wipe.  He remembers things in no particular order, and it is confusing.  He remembers falling first.  Then Steve’s shocked confusion when they met again on the bridge.  He remembers fighting Sam, and Natasha.  There seem to be more memories of her than of Sam, but they are distorted and difficult to follow.  He wants to ask her about it, but doesn’t have the words even in Russian.

 

He dreams of black: charred remains and burned buildings and darkness

 

They go out on missions.  He is invited, but doesn’t go.  Some of the others joke about his effectiveness, his efficiency, the asset he would be (though they don’t use those words), but he just smiles and shakes his head.  He doesn’t want to go back to that.  He’s worked too hard to regain himself, he doesn’t want to risk becoming that again.  At first, they make sure to leave someone with him.  He prefers Natasha or Steve, but sometimes they are needed for the mission.  Eventually, he is left alone.

Being alone is strange, different.  When was the last time he was truly alone?  He doesn’t know.  It helps.  It helps to be able to make his own decisions and take care of himself.  He wasn’t, before.  When he hid from Steve.  He needed help, though he didn’t want it.  He had no money for food and didn’t want to take from anyone.  He’d lost some weight before he let Steve take him home.  Like a lost puppy.  Steve had been distressed, and made sure he’d eaten a lot at first.  He’d allowed it for a while, but then insisted he could take care of himself.  He had to prove to Steve that he could.

Sometimes, when they are gone for a long time, he starts to feel hollow again.  He searches for a word to describe it, and eventually decides he must miss them.  Steve and Natasha and Sam.  The others are not close enough for him to be bothered by their absence.  Sam leaves a lot, not just on missions.  Steve begins to leave every day, so he starts to spend many days with Natasha.  She sits beside him on the couch, but they rarely speak.  They don’t need to.  She smiles at him a lot, more than at anyone else, but some emotion appears in her eyes when she looks at him that doesn’t otherwise.  Steve is similar, but not the same.  Steve is guilty and angry and horrified.  Natasha has no reason to feel any of those, except perhaps horror, to the degree she seems to.  He doesn’t understand.

 

He dreams of white: snow and ice and the blinding white light when they wipe him

 

The first time he makes a joke, Steve is surprised, but then laughs for a long time.  Much longer than the joke warranted.  The others are delighted when he jests or teases, but it strongly affects Steve.  And, for some reason, Natasha.  Both seem pleasantly surprised every time, even as he increases in frequency.  Sometimes, he thinks perhaps it came out in the wrong language, and they are confused, but then they laugh, so that must not be it.  Eventually, he decides they must be so horrified by what happened to him that they forget he is more than that.

Bad things happen to everyone.  Not as terrible as what’s happened to him, perhaps, but everyone has a painful story to tell.  Steve and Natasha are no different.  Steve looks passed what happened to him to what he was before.  The others look at who he is now, though are overly gentle with him because of everything.  Natasha is harder to pin down.  Sometimes she sees him as he is now, sometimes as what he could be, when he gets better.  But sometimes it seems like she is comparing him with some other version of himself.  He doesn’t understand.

 

He dreams of red: a red star, red blood, a red room, and red … hair?

 

He remembers.  He remembers being trained, tortured, mutilated, turned into this monster.  But he also remembers training others.  He didn’t torture or mutilate them (he killed plenty, but that was quick).  Once, he trained a young ballerina to be a master spy, to rival him in hand-to-hand combat, to use her opponents’ larger stature against them.  She always impressed him, and he fell in love with her.  As much as he was capable of, at the time.  He isn’t sure at first, but he becomes increasingly assured that the girl called Natalia is now the woman called Natasha.  It explains much of her treatment of him, and he wonders if he should tell her he knows.

One night, the dreams are too much and he pulls himself from his bed.  Steve is gone so he goes in search of Natasha.  It is early; she isn’t asleep yet.  When he knocks, she comes to the door, slightly bedraggled, and he doesn’t feel hollow anymore.  He smiles at her, and she smiles faintly back.  The words don’t come, and he stands awkwardly in her doorway.  But she always understands, and leads him to the living room, where they sit in companionable silence.  She dozes beside him and he aches to speak, searching for the words.

“I’ve missed you,” he says at last.

She looks up in surprise, momentarily confused.  “When?” she asks.

“Since they took you away from me, Natalia.  Years ago,” he explains.

She sits up abruptly, looking at him intently, conflicting emotions passing over here face.  “I missed you, too,” she whispers.

He pulls her to him, and she settles against his chest.  He sighs softly.  “Please don’t let them take you away again,” he murmurs into her hair.

Her grip around his waist tightens.  “I won’t,” she promises.

 

He dreams of blue, and red, and white: her eyes, her hair, her skin.

 

He dreams of a home.


End file.
